


Peach, Plum, Pear

by Hoisted



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Book 6: The Winds of Winter, Canon Universe, Coming of Age, F/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2019-06-20 08:20:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15530079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hoisted/pseuds/Hoisted
Summary: When the Hound takes Sansa from the Eyrie, she complies. Finding herself unsure if she'll live to regret her choice, Sansa considers what the Hound could possibly want from her...





	1. Chapter One

 

_ Now it's done _

_ Watch it go _

_ You've changed some _

_ water runs from the snow _

_ Am I so dear? _

_ Do I run rare? _

_ And you've changed some _

_ Peach, plum, pear... _

_ Peach, plum... _

\--Joanna Newsom

 

Delirium was a happy feeling for Sansa. At times she was out of her body with fear and cold, the flurries creating a white swirl around the black destrier as it  marched swiftly across the uneven forest floor. At times, she couldn’t see more than a few feet ahead of herself and she wasn’t sure if it was because she was losing her vision to madness or if it really was snowing that hard. But every so often, the warm, hard body would shift behind her and she’d feel the sinewy muscles of his arms when he’d readjust the reigns. _It feels real,_ she thought, and suppressed a laugh.

_If this is real and this isn’t a dream, does that make me his prisoner now?_ Sansa wondered. She reached out her ungloved hand and caught a snowflake on her finger. _But I feel so free._ The snowflake melted the instant it met the heat of her finger and she had nothing to do but leave her hand outstretched in a vain attempt to gather more. _Maybe I can become a snow maid in this forest and he can become...I don’t know what. The Night’s King?_ Her head full of dreams, she looked back at the Hound, her cheek brushing against the soft mottled fur of his cloak. In the freedom of the woods, she felt bold enough to meet his eyes. A steely grey that she remembered well, but there was something different about his look. For whatever reason, she didn’t feel the jolt of terror that used to run down her spine whenever she’d been forced to look him in the face. He still seemed wild to her, like a beast, but less so than before. Maybe more like a man? “You’re too much like a man to be the Night’s King,” she said to him, despondent.

“That so, Little Bird?” He took her outstretched hand and moved it to her lap, adjusting his cloak so that it covered Sansa as well. “We’ll stop for the night in one more mile. You’ve ridden well.”

_Have I?_ Sansa thought, pleased at the compliment, even if she had no idea if it was true or not. She could hardly begin to remember. It seemed so long ago since they’d begun this journey. Some night ago, they stole out of the Gates of the Moon in the dead of night. Stole away from Littlefinger and all his scheming. _He stole me,_ she smiled.

The last mile of their journey passed quickly as Sansa mulled over every tale she knew about fair maidens and magic woods. The amusement helped her to keep her from thinking of  the real, terrifying questions which lingered at the edge of her mind. _What does he want from me? What did Petyr want from me?_

“We’ll make camp here.” The Hound said. The destrier slowed to halt below a rocky overhang, tall enough to shelter them. Wordlessly, he helped her slide from the horse’s back, steadying her on her shaking legs. “Come.” he said gruffly and moved aside  a mossy curtain disguising the entrance to small enclosement. She let the Hound push her by her shoulders, urging her to enter.

Mossy but dry, the warmth of the cave comforted Sansa as she entered. She’d been at the mercy of the elements for so long now. The Hound hadn’t let her gather appropriate clothing for the journey and the plain woolen dress she wore was itchy on her arms and back from the damp and filth. Every muscle in her body ached, she realized, as the feeling began to creep back into her legs. _But was it wise to stop?_ She thought as she observed the Hound settle the horse, brushing him out and feeding him oats from the saddlebag. _Won’t someone come looking for me?_

There was just enough wan light that she could take count of her surroundings. The floor of the cave was curiously clean. It had been swept bare of dead leaves and pebbles, leaving  nothing but smooth bare rock and hard earth. Curiouser still, there were several small bundles on the floor towards the back and two sleeping palets complete with furs piled on top. To another side, blankets enough to warm the horse.   _He’s been here before_ , she realized.

“It will be dark soon,” the Hound said. He was now arranging some dried kindling to feed the fire he started at the cave’s entrance. Squatting as he was, he seemed some sort of enormous beast at home in his lair.

“Do you live here?” she blurted.

“Heh,” he snorted. His powerful thighs flexed as he stood upright, coming to his full height. “You’re not right in the head, are you?” he said, looking at her keenly. “Of course I don’t live here, girl. I intended for us to come back this way, that’s all.” He stalked to the bundles and shoved one into Sansa’s hands. “Here,” he said. “Put on something warmer and sleep.” He pointed to one of the pallets.

“Thank you, Ser,” she murmured, forgetting herself. Thankfully, the Hound paid no mind to her _sers_ for once. He was crouched again, unfolding the other bundle. Sansa set herself to examining the clothes  the Hound had shoved at her. A thick woolen shift, a plain spun dress, stockings, gloves, and a cloak for snow, all items more or less sized for a maiden of her age.   _So he planned for me to be here…_ She fingered the dull grey fabrics, stiff and plain. In truth, they made Alayne’s bastard clothes seem like finery fit for a queen in comparison. _Is this how he plans to keep me then? As if I really am just some forrest maid?_ The thought was utterly bizarre to her - that a man would want her and bother to take her, at great risk to himself, without a thought to her true station in life.

“What are you waiting for?” the Hound rasped. He had at sat himself cross legged on one of the pallets now, a veritable feast of  bread, hard cheese, and dried berries laid out in front of him. “Your dress is soaked through and I didn’t drag you all this way so you can die of fever. Dress yourself or I’ll do it for you,” he said darkly.

Her fingers trembled at the harshness of his voice,  but she began to undo the laces of her dress nevertheless. He hadn’t taken that cruel tone with her since before she’d first climbed atop his horse, so many hours, maybe days, ago.

“I’ll even turn around.” He added, unsmiling. Sansa blushed and turned uncomfortably hot, realizing he’d startled her into behaving immodestly. _But this whole journey is  immodest. He took me, or I went with him?  What does he want from me?_ She’d hardly protested when he took her, hadn’t said no.

He was as good as his word and he sat resolutely facing the wall of the cave while she dressed. The new shift was unbecoming - an inch too short for her lithe frame and  baggy everywhere else.The extra fabric hung off her arms as she laid out her soiled clothing to dry. “I’m dressed,” she whispered. She padded over to him in stockinged feet, sitting with her knees folded on the unoccupied pallet.

The Hound grunted in response and turned to face her. He ripped off a corner of bread and held it out. “Eat something before you fall asleep, girl. Drink something too, or else you’ll wake with a headache.” The bread was serviceable, and the wine was bitter at first, but began to taste better and better to Sansa’s parched throat the more sips she took. The Hound noticed. “Drink too much and you’ll wake with a headache, too. The imp should have taught you that much, at least.”  

Mention of her former husband made Sansa’s pulse race. _That other girl had a dwarf husband. What imp would Alayne know?_ She almost panicked and said, “What imp?” before catching herself. She had no reason to pretend with the Hound, so all she did was silently shake her head and hand back the wineskin.   

“Don’t feel much like chirping, eh?” The Hound teased, taking a deep swig. He looked comfortable, stripped of his jerkin,cloak, and boots. His tunic looked remarkably dry considering, and even his breeches didn’t look to be too weatherbeaten. In the warm orange light of the fire, his skin took on a healthy tinge. His scars didn’t seem monstrous at all.

She shook her head. “Won’t someone come looking for us?” she asked instead.

“Hah,” the Hound’s raspy familiar laugh. “Not for days. I won’t tell you much, but I planned this well. I took you on the eve of a storm back there. They’ll have waited days before they can even start looking for you. And when they do, I suspect they’ll look in the complete wrong direction. The danger to us passed five minutes after we left the gate, you be sure of that.”

“Good,” she said, looking the Hound directly in the eye. Maybe she should have been embarrassed to take such satisfaction in her indecent situation, but in this moment, the fear that her father, Alayne’s father, might come to drag her back overpowered her shame.

“Where will we go?” she asked.

“I won’t tell you that until we’re there. You won’t be a lady where I’m taking you, or even a lord’s byblow,” he rolled his eyes. “But you’ll be safe. And you’ll be safe there until this shit is over.” He took another deep swig and passed the skin back to Sansa. She put it lightly to her lips and sipped, his eyes on her mouth whole time. “And no one will make you suck cock for it either.”

She choked on the wine.   _How dare you_ , she wanted to scream, her ears turning hot and a sudden rush behind her eyes made her vision blur. She should have been used to humiliation by now. The Gods knew how often she’d been made low, forced to play supplicant to the cruel and the stupid, but this was something else. She wanted to fling the wineskin back in his face and flee from here, but as always, there was nowhere else to go. “Wine makes you cruel,” she said instead. She closed the skin and with all the restraint in her body, managed to set it on the ground between them. _I should pour it out over your head._ She turned her back to the Hound and covered herself with the furs.

He was silent for a good while after. Sansa could hear nothing but the crackling of the fire and the pounding of blood in her own head. Eventually, she heard the Hound pick up the wineskin and pour its contents out on the dirt floor, but she refused to turn and look, so she couldn’t be sure.  After a few minutes, her anger ebbed and turned into nothing more than a deep sense of dissatisfaction. She felt her eyelids grow heavy, on the verge of the only sleep she’d had since leaving the Gates of the Moon.

His rasp brought her back. “Sansa.” he growled. “Girl,” she felt a hand on her shoulder, gentle and hesitant. Her eyes opened and she rolled to face him. Even seated, he loomed over her. “I’m sorry.” he rasped. He stared at her, his eyes scanning her face for a reaction, his lips twitching as if groping for more words to say. She sat up slowly, his hand falling from her shoulder to the low of her back as she rose.

“What do you want from me?”

He did not respond. He sat still, his breathing, audible and close enough she could feel the warmth on her cheek. The familiar smell of the horse on him filled her with longing to either cling to him or run from this place and ride.

“I have  never been used by any man like that,” she said. _Almost,_ she thought, feeling suddenly nauseous. Her life so far had been a series of near-misses. The veiled threat in the smell of mint and bruising fingers moving lower on her arm. The Hound said nothing to this, but she heard him swallow and felt his fingers twitch through the shift. _“_ If you don’t want me to be a lady and you don’t want me to be your whore, what do you want from me?”

The hand left her back, leaving a sad coolness where warmth and pressure had been. Everything was silence and cold for a moment, but soon, she felt his oversized hand seek out her small one on top of the furs. Skin to skin, she could feel the callouses and the grainy texture of dirt. He gave her hand a squeeze, silent for a second more until saying, “Go to sleep now.”

She lay her head down to the pallet and dreamed.

 

*************************************************************************************************************

In her dreams, she was running through a field of clover, white flowers exploding up from the green. She was running faster and faster and as she ran, the flowers rose up from the ground, their soft petals brushing her thighs, then chest, then cheeks. So tall it became impossible to move, her legs tangling with stems until she pitched forward, landing in the dark with cold all around her.  A hand reached for hers and gave it a squeeze, but when she rose, she was alone in the courtyard of the Eyrie. Snow covered everything and the bareness of it all after the field of clover made her feel as if a thousand eyes were watching her, but no one was there.

Her dream self stayed there, still as a statute, wishing she could fade into the snow and leave this place.

“How long have you been out here?” A door creaked open, leading into the castle. A figure all in shadow spoke. “You must be very cold. Let me warm you.”

As if pulled on a string, she moved forward, dread mounting as something else gained control over her body. She reached the threshold and the setting slipped away. She was at a feast  in the great hall at the Gates of the Moon. Table after table was piled high with food. Fruit dripping with honey and cakes and bread with the butter just melting on top. She reached out to grab a plum, wanting nothing more than to taste it, but before she could, the force yanked her around again and she was face to face with Lord Petyr, wearing his smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He took a bite of a pomegranate, the seeds spilling messily out the side, and she woke with a start.

************************************************************************************************************

There was light enough to see when she woke, though not much. Sandor was still on the pallet next to her, not asleep but looking in no hurry to start the day. He lay on his back with with his hands behind his head, his chest rising and falling evenly with each breath. His eyes were alert and the moment she opened her eyes and gasped, he took note of her.

“Easy,” he said, as if he were speaking to the horse.

She nodded her head and swallowed, trying to rid herself of the cotton feeling that had settled in her mouth. She let go a little bit of her fear with each thump of her heart. _He says I’m safe with him,_ she remembered. _The Hound won’t let any harm come to me_.

“Bad dreams?” he asked. It was a thoughtful thing to ask, though he hardly looked concerned at all, staring at the rock ceiling of the cave.

“Yes,” she said, holding herself back from saying more. Sharing her dreams with the Hound seemed a frightfully intimate thing, although he had been the one to bring up the subject.

“You were thrashing about like a hare caught in a net almost half the night.” he said.

“I’m sorry, ser. Please forgive -”

“I’m no _ser_ , girl, you should know that by now.” He turned to look at her.

“But I don’t want to call you Hound.” _Aloud, anyway._

“Good. No one calls me Hound where we’re going, and you’d do well not to use it. You can use my name if you must.”

Sansa nodded, not daring to try his patience by speaking again, although he seemed to be a lighter mood. She wanted desperately to ask him questions: _Where are we going? Why aren’t you the Hound anymore? Why did you take me?_ Instead, she rose and went outside into the pale light of winter, to ready herself for the journey.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dawn is here, but Sansa still has questions and Sandor won't give answers.

When she returned, Sandor Clegane was in the exact same pose as when she’d left, sprawled on his pallet, looking more relaxed than any fugitive had the right to be. She unfolded the rough-spun dress she’d been provided and attempted to thrust it on over her shift. 

“No need for that,” he said, finally rising. “The horse needs rest. We rode for two days straight. Like I said before, the danger to us has passed. We have time.”

“How are you so sure?”

“Don’t ask questions,” he said with a lazy finality. “Lay out our meal if you need something to do.”

She set aside the dress and began to unwrap the remains of their food. She was surprised to see how much was left.  _ How long does he mean to linger here?  _ There was plenty of bread and cheese to last them a few days, even with generous portions.  Even a few servings of dried meat. She presented the food to him, laid out a strip of burlap.

“There’s water, if you want it.” he said, gesturing to the wineskin while while taking an obscenely big bite of bread. “And what are you waiting for?” he asked after a swallow. “An invitation to dinner, my lady? Eat. Even little birds need their strength.”  

_ He’s rude even when he means to be kind _ . She knelt across from him and took a bite of cheese. “How long will we stay here?” she asked.

“Didn’t I tell you not to ask questions? We’ll stay here one night more and leave in the morning.”

_ Such a confounding man. Gives me orders and says I shan’t question him, but then answers my question anyway in the same breath.  _ She laughed a little in spite of herself, but quickly looked at the ground and tried to suppress a smile.

“Oh, think it’s funny?” he asked.

“I do,” she looked up and smiled at him, hoping a smile would calm his temper. “It’s just that, you answered my question after all.”

For a tense second, she was worried she’d provoked him, but instead, he laughed and said, “Don’t get accustomed to it!”

Happy for the thaw between them, she enjoyed the rest of breakfast in companionable silence. She put away the remainder of the food and even scooped up the crumbs in her hands and tossed them outside. Sandor cared for the horse - brushing him, feeding him, placing the blanket back over him with an unusual affection. Soon, there was nothing left for either of them to do and they both lay across their pallets. Sandor closed his eyes, his hands behind his head, just as he had lain earlier. Sansa was curled on her side, using the opportunity to covertly observe her captor.

She tried to contrast the man who lay before her now with the man she’d known in King’s Landing. Physically, he was much the same - brawn, sinew, and scars. A lean body far too large to be believed, but his muscular limbs were well-proportioned to his size. With his sleeves rolled up, Sansa could see the definition in his forearms, over twice the size of her own.  _ How does one get to have so many muscles? Harry the Heir doesn’t seem to have half the muscles Sandor has.  _ Silver scars, souvenirs  from battle, crisscrossed his skin beneath a smattering of dark hair. The scars of his face were unchanged, angry red lines maring almost the entirety of the left side of his face.  However, close observation revealed subtle differences. For one, she’d actually never seen the Hound of King’s Landing look as disheveled as Sandor Clegane did now. Thick stubble was coming in on the good side of his face, as dark as the hair on his arms and head. He’d always been close shaven before. Though Sandor had never been what she’d considered to be a fashionable dresser, he’d always worn apparel more or less appropriate for court. The clothes he wore now looked no better than what a peasant might wear.  _ Of course he’s come down in life. He’s a fugitive. Like me.   _ She continued examining his face as he napped. In sleep, his lips looked relaxed and supple and so much kinder than the permanent sneer  that had been on his face in King’s Landing.  _ Well, the good side does anyway. _

“Quit peeping at me, Little Bird.” he said abruptly, opening his good eye and raising his eyebrow at her.

“Pardon,” she caught herself before she called him  _ ser, _ “Sandor,” she said hesitantly. She cursed herself internally.  _ Oh Gods, he caught me staring.  _ She quickly tried to introduce a new subject to ease her embarrassment. “I’m finding it difficult to let go of my worry. I was just envious, I suppose, of how relaxed you are given our position.”

“I’ve no reason not to be,” he said, sounding self-assured. “I accomplished my goal and my plan is foolproof. I’ll be keeping my head  _ and  _ you  _ and  _ my horse. I won’t have him break a leg or die from exhaustion over a girl’s fearfulness. You won’t be going back to Lord Littlefinger any time soon.”

“So you say.”

“Trust me. If it’ll keep you quiet about it, know that I have friends back there. Friends that are prepared to lead that slimy cunt on a merry chase in the wrong direction. And that’s when the bugger can even get out the gate. Like I said, we ran just ahead of a storm.”

“Friends can be false,” she said, though to be honest, her worry had begun to dissipate. The Hound had always been a shrewd man and she doubted very much that he would be deceived by anyone. 

Sandor sighed and furrowed his brow. “Little bird, don’t say such things. You used to be such a trusting creature. You’ve grown up.”  

“It happens to all children,” she said.  _ He sounds almost sad. _

“I’ll tell you what,” he started. “Let’s pass the time. Tell me one of your silly fairy stories. Tell me the one you were babbling about last night. Something about a Night’s King.”

Sansa could feel a bit of heat flood her cheeks and she quickly swallowed and tried to repress it. “Alright,” she said, rising to her knees.  _ What an odd request. I thought he hated it when I spoke.  _  “Although, it’s not a silly story,” she said seriously. “It’s frightening and romantic. A  _ Northern _ story.”

Sandor snorted and rolled to his stomach, propping himself up on his elbows. “I’ll try not to wet myself.”

_ Fine, let him have a go at me. I’ll entertain us all the same.  _ In truth, Sansa loved telling stories. One of her happiest moments from the last year was when she had little Lord Robin in her thrall during her dramatic reenactment of the Tale of the Falcon Knight.  _ Poor Sweetrobin,  _ though she had to push that thought to the side or risk tears. So she launched into the story of the cold woman with blue eyes and the 13th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. To his credit, Sandor managed to keep his snide comments to himself for the duration of the story, and even laughed at the bits Sansa had intended to be funny.

“What else have you got?” he demanded, shortly after she finished her tale.

“Would you like to hear the one about the Pear Boy, the orphan knight?”

“You mean the Peach Boy?”

She shook her head and laughed. “No. The Pear Boy. You see, he was born from a pear tree by the river and he floats down on his pear boat until he’s found by a noble, but impoverished and childless, old married couple and he’s raised -”

“You’ve got it all wrong.” he snorted and wagged a finger at her.

_ Of all the indignities! “ _ No, I believe I have it exactly right. It’s the tale of the Pear Boy and -” 

“Peach Boy!” 

“What? No! Pear-”

“It’s the tale of the  _ Peach _ Boy, born from a _ peach _ tree, who sails the river on his  _ peach _ boat.” He was half- smirking now, the good side of his lips rising up.

“Ugh, if it please you,  _ Ser, _ ” she said with just a little bit of venom in her voice, “I’ll tell the tale of the Peach Boy.”

“It will please me very much,” he said, and smiled wide.  _ At least he smiles with his eyes, too, the ass. _

So she told the tale of Peach Boy and only suffered minor interjections from Sandor, who was only too happy to correct what he perceived as inaccuracies in her telling. She was just getting to the part where the brave boy fights a giant crab to save the fair maiden when Sandor interrupted for the last time.

“You’ve got it wrong again. He saves a flock of sheep, not a maiden.”

“Fine. The maiden was a shepherdess and -”

“You’ve just made that up right now so you can keep your maiden in the story. There’s no maiden. It’s sheep.” She was brutally cut short by Sandor.

“And the giant crab ate the Peach Boy and all the sheep and the people cried forever. The End,” she huffed and turned her nose in the air.

He laughed so hard he was rasping for breath. His chuckles reverberated throughout their small cave, so lively and large she could have mistaken the sound for ten men. “Aye, that’s a sad end for the Peach Boy,” he said, wiping his good eye. Sansa was surprised that she couldn’t make out any sarcasm in his voice. “But let’s say there  _ was  _ a shepherdess, what will she do?”

_ Is he being playful with me?  _ “I suppose she runs away from it all,” she said after a moment.  _ It’s what I would want to do, at least. If I cannot go home. _

“Oh? And this fair maiden, where would she go? Do you think fair maidens get very far on their own?”

“No,” suddenly she was shy. “She meets a noble huntsman in the woods who saves her.” She found herself unable to look him in the eye. “And she’s a shepherdess.”

“Ah, I see. A shepherdess and a huntsman. Not a maid? Not a knight?”

“No.” She stared off into the distance, out the entrance to the cave, not wanting him to know how pink her cheeks had turned. The sun had set so low  she could see no other colors but deep purple and darkness. What little light that remained reflected off the irregular patches of snow that still clung to the ground. She pulled her knees to her chest and let her long dark hair, fall over her face.

Sandor rose to feed the fire. “We passed the day. Or I did, at least. You slept through half of it.  Eat something and sleep again. We’ll leave when we wake.”

_ The day is gone already…  _ Sansa thought. Daylight had only lingered what seemed to be a few short hours. She nodded and moved to unwrap their rations, although she wasn’t feeling hungry. If anything, her stomach felt tight and fluttery and her head felt too warm.  _ But he wants to eat, at least, and I should prepare it for him, I suppose.  _ She laid it out on the same strip of burlap and sat looking mostly at her hands. Sandor gave her an appreciative nod, sat across from her, and began to eat.

When the meal was finished and she’d re-packed their rations, again she was left with nothing to do and nowhere else to go, but to lay across her pallet. She lay on her side, covered herself in furs, and watched as Sandor cared for the horse, feeling as alert as when she’d just awoken. When he was done, he gave her an appraising glance as he lay down on his own pallet.

“You’re not tired.” he stated. “Close your eyes and sleep. You’ll be happy for it tomorrow.”

She closed her eyes and did as she was told, but familiar questions lingered in her mind, sleep evading her.  _ Where will we go? When will we arrive? Why did he take me? What does he want from me?  _ Despite the relatively pleasant day she’d spent with him, nighttime revived all the anxiety she’d suppressed since waking in the morning.

Her eyes opened again, almost just as soon as she had shut them, only to meet his steel grey eyes, staring back. He was laying on his side, facing her, his long arm bent to prop up his head. “I told you to sleep,” he growled. He quickly broke his stare and turned to lay on his back, as if embarrassed to have been caught looking at her.

Sansa knew she shouldn’t provoke him, that she should just do as he told her and wait for the answers to reveal themselves, but something about the fierce look in his eyes goaded her on.  “Why did you take me?” she said, in a voice no louder than a whisper. “Was it just to look at me? For me to tell you stories?”

“Why did you come with me?” he shot back, rising up from his pallet. “I could’ve forced you. Was even planning on forcing you, but I didn’t have to now, did I? You came along with hardly a peep.”  

_He’s right,_ she thought. _He’s always right. I came with him. I chose to come. I chose to leave. I couldn’t bear to return to Winterfell that way…_ _What Petyr said was owed to him. What Petyr would have me to do Sweetrobin, to Harry._  But there was more than just that. There was more than just running away from monsters. When she first felt his thick fingers covering her mouth and when he’d first thrown back his cowl to reveal a face that had become, in dreams, as familiar to her as her own, she felt hopeful. Suddenly,  she had hope for her future and hope that there was at least one honest man in this world. Someone who would care for her and guard her and always tell her the truth. Sansa didn’t have a mother or father anymore. No brothers or sister. And if she couldn’t have them, maybe she could have….what exactly?

“I came because I wanted to.” she said aloud. “Because I wanted to come with  _ you,”  _ she said.

Sandor was staring at her now, crouching down but still looming over her. She tried not be cowed, but he was close now, close enough she could touch his face if sat up and stretched her hand out. “Why did you take me?” she asked, her fingers meeting the rough side of his cheek. 

His fingers had become entwined  in her hair, enough that he could nudge her head forward, so close their lips almost touched.

“Because you’re dear to me,” he rasped. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Sorry it's taking me a long time to get to the rated E stuff, but it's coming next chapter! 
> 
> Also, feel free to give any advice or feedback. I don't know what I'm doing.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you for anyone still reading after the long delay. I'm sending my love to the SanSan community!

_ This is unlike the story _

_ It was written to be _

 

_ Because you’re dear to me...  _ The words echoed in her head, even as she felt her world narrowing to the acute sensation of his body on hers. His hand in her hair, the roughness of his lips. For an instant, it was if her other senses deserted her, leaving no thought, no sight, no sound - nothing but his thick fingers tangling in her hair and his rough lips pressing against her own. Whole seconds must have passed, but she slowly awakened to the taste of berries on his tongue and an ache in her chest and in her tummy. A sound coming from low in Sandor’s throat thrilled her as he nudged her to lay down, his knuckles hovering over her breast, a hair’s breadth from touching, before moving lower to cup her hip.

She lay on her pallet now, prone and vulnerable beneath him. She didn’t dare move. She kept frozen as his lips moved to her cheek and then along her jaw. His kisses were light for a man so strong. She would have thought them chaste, but for the heave of her chest and the pounding of her blood through her veins. Her body’s reaction unsettled her.  _ He’s only kissed me,  _ she thought.   _ He’s gentle with me. I’m dear to him… _

His lips reached her ear and a shock flew through her body, sending a pounding low in her belly, making her gasp and squirm against him, despite how much she wanted to lay still. 

He pulled away,  moving himself up on his knees, still over her. “You  _ are _ new to this,” he said. His eyes narrowed and Sansa felt as if she may have well been naked, the keen way he seemed to observe her every sign of agitation - the flush in her face, the tightness in her chest, the unbearable ache she felt all over.  

_ Of course I’m new to this,  _ she wanted to tell him.  _ I could have been a child yesterday.  _ But bereft of words, she lay silent, swallowed and nodded. 

“How old are you now?” he growled, as if he read her very mind. 

“Ten and --” she struggled. Alayne had been ten and eight, hadn’t she? But how old was Sansa? Older? Younger? 

“You’re ten and seven now.” he said. 

_ Yes. That’s it.  _ Having confirmation from his own lips, she felt certain. “I’m ten and seven now,” she said softly. 

“Well that’s old enough,” he said. His voice was almost as soft as her own and she registered a shift in his eyes. From scrutinous to appreciative; hopeful even, loving maybe. She was struck suddenly with a longing to feel the weight of his body on top of hers, but  he stayed motionless above her. “Even so..” he said at last. His thought was unfinished, but she could hear the hesitation in his voice. 

“I’m older now, not a child, as you said” she grasped at any limp straw to encourage him.  _ Why do I goad him on?  _ She wondered. Then the answer popped from nowhere into her head. _ It was you I dreamed of in my marriage bed.   _ She had the urge to whisper it in his ear, but she stopped before thoughts of her previous life could turn the  moment bitter. 

He grunted in response. 

She kept babbling before she could tell herself to be quiet. “ And I - I won’t be a lady where we’re going, you said. I’ll go with you and I’ll stay there - I’ll stay there until this war is done. Maybe until I’m nine and twenty. Maybe even forever.” 

“Nine and twenty,” he snorted a laugh and brought his hand to her cheek. The warmth of his palm renewed the awkward flush she could feel all over. She wondered if he could feel the clamminess of her face and part of her wished that she wasn’t  _ new to this  -  _ that she could accept his kisses and touches in perfect serenity, like the grown woman she was. 

“I want you,” he said and he brushed the pad of his thumb along her cheek. “I’d want to keep you til you’re nine and twenty. Longer if I could.” 

“I’d let you keep me,” she peeped back. She hadn’t known it was true until she said it, but the realization had come over her just as suddenly as the words came tumbling out.  _ Yes, it’s true. I’ll let him keep me. I cannot have Winterfell. I cannot have my mother, my father, my brothers, my…. But I can have him. He’s dear to me.  _

If he’d heard her, he didn’t react, or at least, he didn’t react with the sweet words she would have wanted when she was a girl. He took action. 

His hands reached down and tugged up her shift - pushed it up so far as to expose  the creamy white plain of her belly, her smallclothes the only thing protecting her modesty. She yelped as he nuzzled himself to her stomach, landing light nips and kisses from the bottom of her ribs to her hip bones. All the while, his hands were busy, pinching and squeezing, one hand at her breast and the other down on her thigh. She shivered and  bit her tongue when his fingers finally brushed between her legs. 

“Gods,” he whispered into her belly. “Gods, gods,” he murmured. The hand at her breast grew still, but between her legs, he became more forceful, rocking into her in such a way as to make her hips twitch. She sucked as much air as possible into the tightness of her chest and struggled to keep still. 

“Sandor,” she said, after a moment, The odd pressure his hand was creating had soon become unbearable. She felt hot, out of control. Her hips wanted to travel in a rhythm with his fingers, but she wasn’t sure if that’s how it was done. Her mind raced back to the late night secrets shared by Myranda and Mya, but she was too agitated to pull any of their wisdom from her memory. 

 She resigned herself to  squirming erratically beneath him and she scratched her nails against the pallet in a vain attempt to relieve the tension. “Sandor,” she breathed out again.

 He hadn’t heard her. His face wasn’t visible to her at all from this angle, so fixated was he on looking between her legs. All she could see was the top of his head, the rest of his form nothing but a hulking black shadow above her. His hand stroked interminably on and on. 

Sandor,” she said again, this time brushing her hand to his shoulder. “What are you...? Oooh!” Her legs fluttered closed and she pushed his hand away without thinking. The sensation was too sharp. 

He snickered and looked her in the eye. “What am I doing? Trying to give you pleasure, girl, if you’ll let me. Gods know I won’t last long enough to give it to you the other way, so best not swat my hand away.” 

“Last long…?” It was as if he was speaking to her in code. 

He sighed and kissed her cheek, “What innocence…” and he was back to applying his lips to her face, ardently now, his teeth scraping her skin in places. She had to moan again and arch into him when she felt the rough stubble of his beard against her neck. His hips rocked back against hers just as soon and she realized. “Oh, this is how…” 

He laughed again and put his finger to her lips. “Not another word, little bird.”

She acquiesced. The rest  flowed as naturally as she could bear to let it. She let him undress her as if she was a little doll - shift, small clothes. He insisted on doing it all himself. He took the most time fingering her stockings, running his hands from above her knees right down to her ankles. She shivered under his touch when his fingers hitched under the hem, beginning to pull one down.  “Should I leave it? Are you cold?” He barked, sounding more like he was accusing her of something rather than truly asking, but he must have meant it because he rolled the stocking right back up and gingerly patted her knee It was so sweet and odd that this man should care, so bizarre that he’d pat her knee as if he hadn’t just had his hands between her legs. So... _ stupid _ that he fretted about the cold when she was laying there  _ naked.  _ She had to giggle, in spite of her resolution to keep quiet. 

 

By that time, every other part of her was bare and open to him. She teetered on that edge between feeling thrilled and feeling terrified, but Sansa told herself she could be bastard brave and that she could only grow more bold with each layer they peeled away. 

After he’d undressed her to his satisfaction, he started on himself. Sansa felt a whoosh of cold air as he rose from her to kick off his breeches. The dim firelight cast such dramatic shadows, the line of every muscle on his legs could have been chiseled from stone. And between his legs…. Sansa quickly averted her eyes. She was bastard brave, but not brave enough to stare. She looked at his eyes instead. He’d already been gazing at her face, and when she met his glance, something caught in her chest, a tender feeling. He peeled off his tunic and dropped it to the floor. “You’re beautiful,” he rasped and he moved towards her again. 

His hand was back between her legs and he was muttering something blasphemous about  _ how wet… The Stranger take him …  _ and so on. She felt slick under his hand and with each passing second she felt herself grow more greedy for his touch. Her hips rose to meet him in pace with his fingers. Something in the back of her mind whispered  _ wasn’t I meant to keep still?  _ But she was finding it hard to care about anything other than sweet connection between their bodies. 

And what a body he had. He could have just as easily been a god as a monster.  Pressed against her, bare skin to bare skin, he wasn’t any less as huge and hard as before. Every so often, he would move and she could see the muscles rippling over the broadness of his shoulders. “Mmmm,” she sighed and ran her hands over his shoulders to behind his neck.

He sucked a sharp take of air in through his teeth, and suddenly, he’d shifted his hips against hers, guiding her legs apart so that he could fit snugly between them. He peered at her again, furrowing his brow and breathing heavily. “Is … do  you…” 

“Yes,” she whispered back. 

He pushed into her in one unbroken motion. Or at least, she thought he had, until he pushed even deeper a half second later. All pretense of remaining ladylike flew from her head when he pushed a third time and Sansa felt their bodies flush together. She yelped and tore  her fingernails across the sinew of his back, feeling both at once like pushing him away and dragging him somehow closer. 

Whatever conflicting desires she felt must have been nothing compared to Sandor’s in that moment. “Are you hurt?” his rasp sounded concerned, but the look in his eyes was predatory, as if he wanted to eat her whole. And all the while, he couldn’t stop himself from moving tentatively against her, bearing into her with small jerks of his hips. “Are you?” he stroked her cheek. 

“I’m not hurt,” she, choked out, barely finding the words. 

“ Good. I won’t hurt - “ but Sansa could hardly make sense of it because he was truly thrusting now, rocking in and out of her with more vigor than before. His mouth was open and he was panting against her, groaning as he moved. He was so hard, loud, and fierce above her, he felt like something beyond man or animal; he could have been some hero of the First Men made flesh again. 

 He grabbed at her hips and ran his hands down one thigh, guiding her to snake her legs over his back. She gasped at how  easily she could move her hips with his now, hot and slick all over, the awkwardness and pain almost forgotten. How easy and good it was to use her ankles to press him closer each time he bucked his hips. She almost wanted to hold him like that forever, but soon he was cursing and tearing himself out of her, spilling himself in hot spurts across her belly.

“Fuck me, oh gods - “ he continued with obscenities  and half-thoughts, nuzzling himself to her neck, seemingly unconcerned with the mess. 

She was dazed for a minute as her blood calmed and she waited to feel normal again.  Surely lying with a man could only cause a temporary madness, but a normal feeling never came. She was anxious, exhausted, and keenly aware of feeling sore. But part of her wanted to try it again. The heavy weight of his body was a great comfort, but he rose after his own breathing had slowed. 

“Wash up and sleep,”he said,  pulling on his breeches. 

She looked down at herself  and wondered what she could be expected to do about  _ his _ mess. But soon he was offering her a damp rag, taking her hand in his as she dabbed at her belly. He tossed the rag to the side and then he was having her lift up her arms, dressing her with almost as much care as he had undressed her earlier. 

She lay back as he scratched about, moving his bedding square with her own. “You’ll sleep next to me,” he said, as if he was commanding her. As if he was expecting her to say no or to get up and leave. He lay down next to her, enveloping her whole body with his. Sansa almost felt like objecting to his tone but his arm felt good across her and she was beginning to feel peaceful, despite the soreness. When his breathing deepened and she could feel his chest rise and fall against her back, she knew being contrary wasn’t worth the effort. 

_ He’s dear to me,  _ she thought, lulled to sleep in the safety of his arms.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please let me know if you see any annoying errors. Or anything that just annoys you! I don't write for fun often, so I am still learning how to write and edit. Any feedback is appreciated. 
> 
> SanSan fans are the best <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I intended this to be a one-shot, but I decided to split it into two parts just to get some momentum going. I'm so lazy with writing! 
> 
> I am trying to stick close to some book!canon-compliant / realistic characterizations for the two of them, but let's pretend Sandor had some therapy on the Quiet Isle. 
> 
> Feedback and suggestions are welcome! Especially if I made a formatting error or something.


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